


"It's just a construct, so fuck it."

by goodbyedoctorwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, F/M, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Masturbation, Sexuality Crisis, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyedoctorwatson/pseuds/goodbyedoctorwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unilock. John questions his sexuality and meets a young dancer at a genderfuck ball, who helps him figure it out. For tumblr user aconissa's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aconissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aconissa/gifts).



> There's some genderbending(?) in parts of this, but I wasn't sure how to tag. Please comment if you think it should be tagged!

_“Have you been wicked?” The woman’s voice was soft and teasing. She was in control, there could be no doubt, despite the gentleness that smoothed her voice and turned John’s limbs to water. Then again, a far more obvious hint to her power could have been the whip in her hand, or the fact that John was tied down to her mattress by both ankles and wrists, completely naked. He could tell one part of him seemed to be enjoying the prospect of being dominated already, the warmth between his thighs was even greater than the heat of the embarrassed flush which had flooded across his face and chest at her words. He made to speak, but could only managed a startled squeak (he blushed even more at that) and an eager nod. The woman smirked, and turned her back. “You do look beautiful in that battle attire.” She mused, and he could practically hear her wink. “Now, I’m going to get into mine…”_

_Till now, John hadn’t paid much attention to what she was wearing, understandably. Now, though, he turned his head and saw that she had picked up a long dark coat, and was pulling it over her fragile figure. It was a man’s coat, and more than a few sizes too large for her. Nonetheless, John found he was even more turned on by his lack of understanding. He never would have thought this powerlessness would be as appealing as it was, but his sudden lack of control in sex was really something he could get used to. It was much easier this way, for his part. The woman turned back to face him, and John grinned in anticipation._

_She had changed- not just her clothes, but also her whole body. Her jawline was sharper and covered with light stubble, the kind his sister had always described as ‘classically handsome’ before she had come out and- fuck, he should_ not _be thinking about his sister right now. His eyes skimmed over the woman’s torso, where the smooth breasts had become toned, sharp and flat. There was a thin covering of dark hair there, trailing down her stomach to the bulge beneath her knickers. Her thighs, too, were stronger, muscular, defined. When she spoke again, her voice had deepened to a rough growl._

_“There… now we’re both dressed up. Are you ready, prince?” she muttered, walking forward and climbing up onto the bed, straddling him and pressing her erection to his stomach. She leaned down to him, stubble brushing against his cheek, and took a breath to whisper in his ear._

_“EEP!-EEP!-EEP!-EEP!-EEP!-EEP!”_

He woke with a start, rolling over and swinging his arm out to punch the alarm clock on his bedside table. Fuck! That was bloody typical. From force of habit he rolled onto his back and reached his hand down beneath his boxers, stroking himself lazily. He appreciated a morning wank just as much as the next person, but just once it would be nice to finish a sex dream asleep, as opposed to hopelessly trying to recall flickering memories of them, when he was all too painfully aware of his own palm. He sighed through his nose and tried to concentrate… there had been a woman… a woman with dark red hair and sexily rouged lips. He could recognise her now as Irene Adler, a character from some BBC drama his friend Ana had made him sit through. The show hadn’t been half bad, actually, though he had groaned and complained all the way through, more for show than genuine dislike. He supposed he must have enjoyed it more than he had let on, given his current circumstance. He should probably thank Ana for the opportunities the show’s material had provided. Then again, considering current state, maybe not. He turned his thoughts back to the dream. At the back of his mind lingered the embarrassment of having to resort to fictional characters to fantasise about, but he pushed it from his thoughts as best he could. He had fantasised over worse, anyway. _Focus._ So… black hair and red lips. He had been tied down, he recalled, and he surprised himself by how much harder he grew at the memory- he should remember to bring that up with future girlfriends, perhaps. Tied down, totally still, and only turned his head when Irene Adler had picked up the coat. She had turned back to look at him, and-

John’s hand shot back up to his pillow quickly as he pushed himself bolt upright. _No_. That couldn’t have been right. That was… _wrong_. He had ascertained that this character was Irene Adler, the dominatrix, the lesbian, the very much female character, with boobs and curves and a pussy; so much had practically been proven on the screen, before his very eyes. She had all the features John would lust over, whether they’re portrayed in a thrilling drama, a graphic novel or a fucking homemade porno. _So why the-?!_

He shook his head, scrubbed the sleep from his eyes with the base of his palm, and pushed himself from his bed. He needed a shower, a cup of tea, and a slap round the face. His dorm could provide the first, the kitchen the second, and rugby practice the third. He began to focus all his attention on his tasks, not sparing a single thought, lest his mind should wander back to that disgusting dream. There was no need to think of it again.

 ***

 A shout behind him made him start as he approached the changing rooms.

“JOHNNY BOY!”

John grinned, though made sure his shoulders slumped and his head dropped in mock-anguish. He didn’t need to let the boy behind him know that he enjoyed his presence and add to that already ridiculously inflated ego. He painted over his grin with a grimace as the boy caught up to him and seized him by the shoulders, with another triumphant cry of “JOHNNY!”

“Matt.” John nodded in response.

Matt beamed at John, half-laughing at John’s deadpan reply.

“What a glorious morning, hm? Really gets you in the spirit for rolling around in mud with a big group of other blokes, eh?”

John’s mind flickered momentarily back to his dream, but he shook his head again, both to clear it and to ridicule Matt.

“It hasn’t rained for a while, there won’t be much mud.” He muttered pathetically, realising too late how transparent he had been in attempting to change the subject. Matt shot him a look, but continued all the same.

“But doesn’t it just stir your blood and warm your heart, the thought of rugby on a Friday morning?”

“How very patriotic of you.”

“You dear old English rose.” Matt winked as they entered the rooms. He clapped John on the back and walked away to his locker, all curiosity over John’s fluster clearly vanished, for which John was thankful.

John set his bag down on the bench and changed quickly, staring straight ahead, pretending not to consider for a moment the fact that guys all around him were doing the same. _Fuck, what was wrong with him today?_

Out on the field the sun was shining, though the wind was bitterly cold, cutting into John’s skin as he ran and burning his throat. These conditions, as it happened, were perfect, and the game was animal. Besides a few newcomers John kept behind for extra laps, the whole team had finished their training within an hour. When he entered the changing rooms again to shower, most of the team had already filed out.

Matt was waiting for him outside, and threw an arm around John’s shoulders as soon as he appeared.

“Great game today, Johnny!”

“Yeah, yeah, it was really good. A couple of the newbies fell behind, though.”

“Ah, go easy on them, they’re not used to playing with such skill as us.”

“Nope, no, true…” John chuckled, unable to ever keep a straight face with Matt around. He couldn’t remember a time this guy hadn’t made him smile. They had both met on the same medical course and were thrown together in a project on the developments of recent cures for anaemia, Matt forgetting to mention his squeamishness until their final presentation. He had lasted all of 4 weeks on that course, before transferring to geology. Still, though, the boy insisted on accompanying John to every lecture he had after practice, regardless of whether or not it was convenient to Matt’s schedule. John couldn’t blame him to be honest- he would have done anything to put off studying rocks for endless hours, too.

They walked across the campus, Matt talking animatedly about how his team were doing and some new ideas for the training, John nodding and ‘mmm’ing at the right moments. He liked this friendship with Matt. It came easily to him.

They got to his lecture hall and John made for the door, but turned suddenly when he found his forearm held in Matt’s gentle grasp. He looked up at the boy, cocking his head to one side slightly. Matt’s cheeks had tinted- from the cold, John suspected- though his smile was warming.

“John, I was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee after your lecture?” He spoke with ease, the same tone as always. You could hardly blame John for missing the softness of Matt’s look or the quickening of the pulse in his neck. In fact, all John thought at all was how pleasing a cup of coffee would be on such a bitter day. He returned Matt’s smile and nodded, arranged to meet him back here in a few hours, and walked inside.

 ***

John’s ease, which had settled him over the past few hours, left him over the course of his lecture. They were studying anatomy, and John was currently seated at his desk with a textbook opened to a page littered with diagrams of thighs and stomachs and shoulders- on any other day he would have gotten down to studying. He loved these lectures most of all, learning the way every person could be simplified down to their bones and muscles and skin, how each person was simply a series of puzzle pieces all joined at the right edges. All one needed to do was master the puzzle pieces, and you had mastered the person in their physicality. There was a detached sort of beauty about it, a coldness he found thrilling about the disassociation. He wanted to become a doctor because he wanted to help people, but he was also fascinated by the biology, the insignificance caused when he simplified everyone down to the basic concepts within this textbook. He had been caught out flexing the muscles in his wrist- just to watch his veins and compare them to the diagrams- in the first term.

But now, looking down at the pages, his stomach twisted. The image of the woman in his dream kept coming back to him. He only saw her shoulders, her stomach, her thighs. Could he even call her that? The woman? Yes. He supposed it was best. Besides, he told himself, women could have beards. Women could have penises. Women could have deep voices. Ana had explained all this to him before. And yes, that would make sense, psychologically- the association with gender to Ana to Sherlock to Irene Adler. But still… it was something more than that, he was sure. He couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the dream and he had been certain, in that moment, that there were no two ways about it- Irene had been a man. Her transformation was irrelevant, and John could not escape the fact that in that moment, more than ever before, he had wanted Irene to pin him down, to feel his erection against his stomach, and to be controlled and used and pushed by him, to find out his own limits with this man, a figure of his own imagination, and to be swept up in the passion and feel every last fucking second of it.

His fists were clenched and he had to lean back in his chair and gasp a breath. Christ, this was messing him up.


	2. Coffee

He worked himself up so much during the lecture that he only managed to jot down a couple of pages of notes, in part due to his palms being too sweaty to hold his pen properly. He was so distracted that he had entirely forgotten about coffee with Matt until he walked into the boy as he walked back out onto the green. His nose collided with Matt’s shoulder and he muttered a brief apology before Matt’s voice pulled him back to his senses.

“No worries, Johnny. Mind elsewhere, eh?”

John smiled apologetically. Matt looked down at him for a second, and then draped an arm around John’s shoulders, as was custom when the two of them walked together.

It was a brief stroll to the nearest bus stop, passed mostly in casual insults and play-fight punches. John found himself, remarkably, leaning back into Matt’s arm just very slightly, enjoying the warmth and support from it. He couldn’t wait till this little mental breakdown passed, but for now, and with Matt, at least, he could enjoy certain aspects.

Touch was something he had been lacking, as of late. University had been advertised to him as somewhat of a paradise- getting trashed every night, waking up to a stranger, falling out of bed and into a lecture hall, smelling of coffee and aftershave and surrounded by dozens of similar students, all with the common goal of having a good bloody time. He had learnt the hard way that attending a university did not make you miraculously irresistible to ladies, nor did it provide you with endless free nights and piles of cash. Quite the opposite, in fact. And while he had managed to sleep with considerably more girls here than he had in sixth form, the whole illusion of university life had shattered within months. It had been… what, three months since his last intimate interaction? He cringed at that realisation, and made a mental note to stop thinking terms such as ‘intimate interaction’ if he ever wanted to get laid again.

He had to admit; in these terms he was entirely justified to enjoy Matt’s touch. And it wasn’t as if it _meant_ anything, was it?

The two boys joined the huddle of students waiting at the stop for the bus to town. Fridays afternoons were typically spent shopping for outfits for that evening, or getting a few pre-drinks before hitting the clubs, and the bus stop became a prime spot for social gatherings after lunch.

A boy in a green jumper and hideous brown cords waved to Matt.

“Tony,” Matt whispered in John’s ear, his lips rather closer than necessary, John thought. “He’s one of the guys from my course. Such a prick. I’ll be back in a moment.”

John nodded, and Matt slipped through a gaggle of girls to the other end of the queue to meet Tony, striking up a conversation in a rather reserved fashion.

John’s eyes travelled across to the group of girls Matt had shuffled through, who were all dressed in brilliantly tight dresses and painfully high heels. Pre-drinks, then. John thought about shuffling over, introducing himself, making a comment about the weather. No, not the weather, stupid. The bus timetable, perhaps? Their course choices? He could just go over and compliment their outfits? He was running through the best lines in his head, and about to go over, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, are you interested in our genderfuck ball?”

John had been so distracted by the girls that he had only heard ‘fuck ball’, and spun around, ready to yell to the heavens about whatever the world was putting him through today. But he stopped when he saw who had addressed him.

A tall boy was stood behind him, a shy smile on his face and a leaflet held in his outstretched hand. Curls toppled lazily over his forehead, but were trimmed enough to only brush the shell of his ears, their inky black striking against the paleness of his skin. He held himself delicately, his broad shoulders pushed back in elegance and his hips pushed forward so that he was stood in perfect neutral. His icy eyes were so kind and his smile so shy that John beamed back and took the leaflet before questioning him.

“Sorry?”

“Our genderfuck ball.” Explained the boy. His voice reminded John of something, or someone, he couldn’t place. “We’re inviting all the first years. Tonight, starts at 9. It’s near the East Hall, just off campus in the other direction.” He nodded his head back slightly. “It’s free. We just… we want to break down the gender roles, stereotypes, make people feel more at ease I guess. Because gender is just a construct, so fuck it.”

He almost laughed at that last bit, and John smiled even more.

“Sounds great. Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before? I’m John.” He held out his hand. _Wait, what?_

“Sherlock.” The boy replied.

“Sherlock? As in-?”

“Yes, as in the detective. My parents were enthusiasts. Rest assured I have never forgiven them.”

“No, no, I just- It’s unusual, that’s all.”

“Yes.”

There was a brief silence. John hadn’t planned to say any of that. He was hardly one for introductions, let alone initiating them himself. He nodded slightly, then glanced down at the leaflet.

“And so you’re going to be at this… ball, then?”

“I am.”

“Right, right, great…” he muttered, still staring at the leaflet, still trying to understand the whole concept.

“Is it?”

John looked up. “Hm?”

“Is it great?”

“What? Oh, um, yes. I guess so. I mean, sure?”

Sherlock grinned, laughter in his eyes, though he remained just as still and poised as he had done throughout the conversation. John found himself entranced by his control, how he spoke through his eyes and his lips as if nothing else was needed to explain. That wasn’t how communication was meant to work, was it? The silence remained, and John pretended not to feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. Finally, the taller boy spoke.

“Perhaps I’ll see you there, then.”

John nodded, looking up slightly too late. The boy had already walked away down the path to the main green.

Matt was by his side a moment later.

“Sorry about that, he wanted to talk to me about some kind of sandstone.”

“Sounds absolutely thrilling.”

“Oh no, really rather sedimentary, my dear Watson.” Matt laughed to himself, and John’s head snapped up. This day was becoming progressively weirder as it went on. For the second time today, John was met with a quizzical look from Matt in return for his bunny-in-headlights expression. Matt nodded down to the leaflet in John’s hand. “What’s this?”

“Oh, just some leaflet about a party or something. Some kid just gave it to me. I was too polite to say no.”

“’Genderfuck ball’?”

“Yeah, I um… well, you know how things are these days. Everyone wants to try something different, don’t they? Everyone wants to experiment.” He gulped suddenly, and Matt’s brow furrowed.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

If Matt had something more to say, he hid it well. The bus pulled up to the stop a few minutes later, and the groups of students piled on.

 ***

The coffee shop was busy, full of clusters of school kids gossiping over frothy milkshakes and students with laptops and folders and headphones, staring dully at their screens. Matt offered to order and gestured to a spare table by the window. John dumped his bags on the floor and took a seat, starring out idly at the passers-by and the traffic outside. His mind drifted to thoughts of rugby and essays and over-due assignments, and it was a long time before he realised he had been subconsciously watching a group of older students who were smoking outside. The girls were in polo necks and jeans, the boys in tight white t-shirts and tattered jackets. John couldn’t identify which gender he had been checking out more- his instinct had been the girls, but then again there had been something about one of the boy’s movements, the way his shirt stretched when he reached out for the ashtray, which seemed to have distracted him…  

Matt placed a large mug in front of him, overflowing with froth, and John’s thoughts jumped back to himself.

“Didn’t know your order mate, so I guessed Cappuccino?”

“Thank you.”

“I almost went for chai latte, but I wasn’t sure how you felt about cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon’s good, cinnamon’s nice.” He smiled, and Matt chuckled.

“Well, next time I’ll try and remember.”

John nodded. “And, how much do I owe you?”

“Oh, no, no, it’s on me.”

John smiled in surprise. “Thank you. Next time’s on me, then. Or I’ll buy the first round if we go out later, or whatever.”

Matt’s ears seemed to perk up at that. “You want to go out tonight?”

“Sure.” John shrugged, taking a sip of his drink and casually licking away the milk moustache that had formed. He could do with a night out, and a chance to get properly smashed.

“Well, my mate George is having a few mates round. He’s second year, so he’s in a student house. Doesn’t fit the geology student stereotype, don’t worry. His things are usually quite good? Only if you want to, of course, or whatever you had in mind.”

John smiled slightly at this uncharacteristic shyness of Matt’s, and nodded. “Sure. That sounds great.”

Matt took a sip of his drink before launching into theory after theory of game tactics, and John listened and nodded, paying attention now and discussing the best plan of action for the coming season. He was glad for something to occupy his thoughts.

 


	3. Matt

That evening, the two boys found themselves at George’s house. Matt hadn’t been lying- George somehow seemed to have made the illusion of university life a reality, and the house was filled with girls, guys and half empty bottles. There was heavy bass playing from the kitchen, and people grinding against the counters.

John had begun drinking almost as soon as he had arrived, and was now happily sipping at the remains of his third beer, lounging on the sofa and watching the figures in the room dizzily. His head was clear and he grinned into the room, lost in drunken thoughts. Matt emerged from the blur of the crowd in front of him, and sat almost on top of him, which only made John chuckle.

“Enjoying the party then, Johnny?”

John raised his bottle and grinned in response.

“I can’t wait to move out of halls next year if it’s like this.” Matt smiled, looking around for a second, before focussing back on John.

“Agreed.”

“Well, mate, all you’ve done all evening is drink and watch the crowd.”

“Yes.”

“Come and dance! I’ll introduce you to the igneous rock fans.”

“You say that as if you’re not one of them.”

Matt raised his hands, all innocence. “I never claimed that! Come on, I want to show you off.”

“Show me off, hm?”

“Yes! Captain of the rugby team and all. Come on, just one song?”

“No, I’m very happy just sitting here with you.” John smiled, shuffling slightly as one of his legs began to go dead.

He looked at Matt for a long second. He had rather an attractive face, John supposed. His sweat-dampened hair was hanging loosely over his forehead, despite Matt’s habit of pushing his hands through it so that it set in waves across his head, usually. His eyes were the muddy sort of grey that used to remind John of cold tea which he regularly left on his desk after attempting all-nighters, a stale and tired sort of off-beige, but now, in the smoky light of the room, they looked bright like shimmering puddles on tarmac. He had never looked at Matt like this before; it was intriguing. He noted the curve of his nose and the day-old stubble and his eyes traced across Matt’s cheeks to his jawline to his lips… They looked paler against his tinted skin here, soft and creased from smiles.

Matt leaned in to John, down until their noses almost touched, and John was still staring at those lips… and then they touched his own.

Matt was so gentle, kissing John with the same softness with which he laughed and mocked John so often. His boyish playfulness had gone, and his fingertips brushed John’s jaw softly. He shifted his legs in John’s lap to straddle above him, and he pressed against John’s mouth just slightly harder, so that John had to part his lips and let Matt’s tongue slip between them.

Matt’s body pressed closer to John. John felt a pressure against his stomach beneath Matt’s jeans and- _fuck._

Panic flooded through John, and he shoved Matt backwards roughly, out of shock rather than anger. Matt landed with a thud on the floor, drunkenness cushioning his landing. John stared down at him, panting hard, shaking his head in attempt to clear it of alcohol and confusion and the realisation of the last few moments. _What the fuck had happened there?_

“John?” he heard Matt call from the floor, sounding confused more than anything else. John met his eyes for a second, then pushed himself to standing. He swayed on the spot for a few seconds, turned, and stumbled out of the room, pushing past people and out into the street.

_There was a boy on top of him, a boy with soft lips and laughter creases and day-old stubble…_

John shook his head viciously and pressed his hands to his face.

“Argh!” It seemed the only reasonable thing to say right now.

The nights had become even colder than the days now, and his breath steamed around him as he walked, panting. After a moment he heard Matt’s voice, travelling loudly in the silence of the street.

“John? John! C’mon, please, I’m sorry!”

But John hardly heard him. He headed back the way they had come, working on auto-pilot, his mind spinning with thoughts and his head spinning with booze and the journey to the bus stop was a blur. He crashed onto one of the seats in the back row of the vehicle and forced his head between his knees.

The bus dropped him off back at the campus, and he strolled slowly through the buildings, not wanting to go back to his dorm yet, where there was nothing to do but contemplate the massive fuck-up that had been his evening. What had he been thinking? He was drunk- or rather, had been drunk. People made ridiculous mistakes when they were drunk all the time. And besides, Matt had initiated it, hadn’t he? In fairness, John had been totally justified in his response. John hadn’t exactly been giving Matt _signals._ They had played rugby practice this morning, as always. They walked to John’s lecture, as always. Matt had asked him out for coffee, as… _oh_.

John crushed his temples between his palms again. Now that he thought about it, it had been pretty obvious. John was spectacular at misreading signals from others- overanalysing with girls and, it seemed, under-analysing with guys.  But all the same, Matt should have realised that John was clueless about the situation, surely? He could hardly blame John. And, John kept reminding himself; people did things like this all the time.

But this fact didn’t ease his problem. He knew it was stupid to try and comfort himself with that, it didn’t help _his_ current situation. What he needed right now was something to take his mind off this whole thing.

He had walked to the green, circled it once, and had nowhere really to go now. He shoved his hands in his pockets as the cold whipped round him, and his hand landed on a crumpled leaflet of some sort. He pulled it out and read:

 

**_The Genderfcuk Ball._ **

****

**_Gender is just a construct. So f**k it._ **

****

**_East Hall. Free Admission._ **

****

This seemed as good as anything. It was free, warmer, and guaranteed to have some drink, which he desperately felt in need of right now. Kissing Matt had been a hideously sobering experience, in every way.

He turned on his heel and headed towards the East Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than intended, but most of it was written on a boat journey so there was a time cap. I'll hopefully post the next chapter next week :)


	4. Sherlock

            In retrospect, he totally should have expected the ABBA. It hit him like a glittery slap round the face as he entered the hall, shuffling his feet awkwardly and chewing at his lower lip. It was blasting out from one end of the room and echoing, so that people were still dancing to it in the corridors and stairways between the rooms.

_‘I can dance with you honey, if you think it’s funny, does your mama know that you’re out?’_

John thought he had left those songs behind him when he moved from home, they just reminded him of embarrassing family events and drives to holiday resorts. Here, though, people seemed to come alive with them, and he began to almost nearly very slightly see how the song could have once been popular.

He blinked and moved with his head down. His first port of call was to find the drinks table.

He slid into the main hall, which was dark and filled with smoke from machines. A spotlight lit a corner which had been transformed into a make shift bar, and John made a beeline for it. A very pretty young girl slid over to serve him.

“What can I get you?”

“Smirnoff and lemonade. Please.”

“Double or single?”

_Double_. “Single.”

The girl turned to fill his glass. Only when she had spoken had John realised that she must have been- how had Ana put it? _Assigned male at birth_. But then, as John scanned the girl’s outfit (a remarkable sequined waistcoat and skinny jeans) he noticed a small symbol for ‘male’ pinned to their chest. He took a breath, steeled himself for what could easily turn out to be yet another excruciatingly awkward conversation tonight, and gestured to the badge.

“So you’re… you identify as male?”

“Oh yes, yes.” The boy smiled widely and passed John his drink. “I love dressing like this, though. So much more opportunity for self-expression. But yes, these badges really help at events like these. They’re on the table as you come in. Not compulsory, of course, but helpful.”

John figured he must have looked more like a lost puppy than he realised. The boy looked at him softly. “First time at a queer ball like this, hm?”

“First time at a queer anything.” John said, slightly exasperated. Brief memories flickered through his mind of teasing Harry when he was younger. Worse than teasing, actually. And worse than just Harry. Shame twisted his gut and he took a large gulp from his glass.

“Well that’s fine, hun. Everyone gets a little nervous their first time. Grab yourself a badge if you’d like, and just get dancing. Everyone’s friendly here.” He tossed a mixer in the air and began on another cocktail, winking at John before moving along the bar to serve someone else.

As much as John appreciated the sentiment, that was much easier said than done, and much easier when you were with a familiar group of people. Nonetheless, a badge did seem a good idea. He walked back to the entrance, picked up a ‘male’ badge from the selection (he had no idea there were so many different symbols?) and slunk back against the coolness of the wall.

From here, he could observe the room properly. Most people, it turned out, were dressed similarly to him. More fashionable, perhaps, more stylish, but no great deviation from his standard jeans and jumpers and shirts. Some, however, had gone all out in colours, sequins, glitter, and face paint. He grinned to himself at the sight of them, and a small part of him wished he had the confidence to dress like that. There seemed to be some Rocky Horror Picture Show inspired outfits, including the corsets and stockings, and John found that everyone looked stunningly good, regardless of gender. He had to look away and back to his glass quickly before his body betrayed him. Again.

He watched the crowd, wandering if he had somehow tripped back into the 1980s, sans the oppression of these sorts of events. It was nice to watch people. He couldn’t recognise anyone he knew, though this was largely a first year event and the medical courses were the most popular. Perhaps everyone was just disguised beneath different personas? Or their real persona, the one they covered up during day-to-day life. Either way, John found himself grinning at the scene, glad that events like these existed, where people could be themselves. He even felt his own shell melting away a little, and he relaxed and allowed his eyes to blur in and out of focus.

***

The DJ slowly turned the music from pop to slow-dance as people became worn out and hot, and slunk off to the drinks table or a fag outside. John was still stood in the same place, his glass drained and his mind reassured in the happiness of drunken haze. There were fewer people in the main hall now, and he felt confident enough to look around, smile at people, nod and even add a small ‘hello’ of acknowledgement. The atmosphere had changed with the music, and now people were muttering, moving slowly and staying close to each other out of affection rather than overcrowding.

He could make out the silhouettes of people clearer now, though he still couldn’t see anyone he recognised. He scanned the faces around the room and noticed the dark haired boy from earlier. Sherlock. Fanatic parents. John smiled to himself.

He set his glass down on a table nearby and headed towards Sherlock, figuring he couldn’t exactly stay against the wall all evening.

Sherlock was stood with his back to John, and even from his posture John could see he was uncomfortable with the people he was listening to. No, not uncomfortable. Just _bored_. His posture was slumped ever so slightly, his head hung a little too far to meet anyone else’s eye, but his hands were loose and relaxed by his sides, as though perfectly at ease. John reached out and touched his arm gently, and the boy turned.

“Hello. I’m John. You spoke to me earlier, at the bus-“

“The medical student with the sexuality crisis and the gay sister. Yes. I remember.” He smiled softly.

John flinched, stung. Sherlock had clearly been doing some talking. Dishing the dirt. Had word got around about him and Matt so quickly?

He looked away from Sherlock, about to make a final trip to the drinks stall before admitting defeat and heading back to his dorm to sleep everything off. Sherlock spoke again quickly.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to point it out. No one knows.”

“What?!”

“I mean I just deduced that. Happens accidentally sometimes, people seem to find it off-putting.”

John frowned at the boy. He had seemed so genuine this morning, was he really such a… _dick_ in reality? The alcohol in John’s system wasn’t doing his temper any favours. That was possibly the only reason he stayed now. He could do with a fight, to relieve some of the day’s tension.

“’Deduced’ it, hm? What are you on about? What did you ‘deduce’?”

“You kissed your friend tonight, the one you had coffee with this afternoon.”

John frowned and an angry smirk spread across his face. “No shit.”

“I only know because you’ve switched from beer to vodka. A medical student needs an a-level in chemistry, and chemistry students know never to mix those drinks if you want to avoid a killing hangover in the morning, which you do as you have rugby in the morning because you’re training up the team with new tactics, suggested by your friend, which is obvious by the fact you’re only dressed for an evening out- nobody wearing jeans and that jumper intends to stay up to the small hours. I know you kissed him because you have a different brand of aftershave on, but the smell is still mingled with your own, which I identified earlier at the bus stop. You would never bother wearing two, you don’t give that much thought to your appearance (look at that jumper), but the second one is a classic old brand called Trouble For Men, especially favoured by homosexuals in the early 80s. Gay friend kisses you, you panic, you run on autopilot back to a safe-place, in this instance the uni, your current home, but then decide you need more drink and distraction. You come here. You spend the first half an hour drinking by the wall- I saw you- then you come over here for some friendly distractions.”

John’s frown had ironed out into a look of complete bewilderment. “And Harry?”

“Hm? Who?”

“Harry, my sister, you said she was gay.”

“She is.”

“Yeah but… how could you possibly figure?”

“A boy who panics about sexuality in this day and age has something to fear. Balance of probability: witnesses of past bad responses. I’ll admit that the sister part was a shot in the dark.”

“Incredible.” John whispered.

“What?” Sherlock raised his voice as the track changed to a heavier bass.

“That’s incredible, what you just did.” John said, louder.

Sherlock looked a little stunned. “You think so?”

“Of course.”

“…I thought you were going to tell me to piss off.”

John grinned. “I still might do. I haven’t decided yet.”

Sherlock’s face softened out in relief and he smiled widely. John was about to say something else, when Sherlock’s expression suddenly changed just as quickly to one of shock. His eyes were wide and fixed towards the dance floor. He turned to John and whispered urgently. “I fucking love this song. Stay here.”

John burst out laughing. For some reason he had been expecting an emergency, the look on Sherlock’s face had implied that something was seriously wrong. Sherlock slipped to the middle of the dance floor, which was empty except for him.

A guy slipped over to stand next to John, a grin like a cat spread across his face. He leaned over to mutter to John, eyes still fixed on Sherlock.

“Watch this.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes. Look at him.”

“Why? What does he do?”

The guy next to John grinned. “He’s a ballet dancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the deductions are improvised. I know nothing about medical degree entry grades or chemistry a levels. Also I got quite caught up in the 80s aspects in this chapter… hope you enjoy!


	5. Dance

Sherlock was the only figure on the floor, his shadowed, fuzzy silhouette black against the smoky backdrop. John watched, entranced. The boy barely missed a beat between walking away from John and beginning to dance, and yet his whole posture transformed. His shoulders, broad and strained with muscle, seemed relaxed and light, but with such control and strength that John had to marvel at the juxtaposition. His chest had risen and he had raised to his points, so that his whole body had become smooth and stream-lined. His chin was raised in a point of elegance, which gave him a noble look. For a fraction of a second, he looked like a statue, toned and balanced and catching the light in bright streaks across the hollows of his cheeks and chest. Then he dipped slightly and came to life.

He threw his arms out in demonstrative swoops, bending back gently and tipping his chin, so his eyes locked with John’s for just a second, then he was away, twisting and turning with an elegance John had never seen away from a stage. He was balletic, timed and graceful, but heavy and wild with the music, still. There was so much control in him, and John stared, unable to pull his gaze away.

John’s focus was pulled to the dancer’s stomach, the centre point of his movements, the area by which all other features of Sherlock were controlled, twisted, angled. Sherlock’s white t-shirt had begun to cling to his skin, and John saw the muscles beneath it, toned and practiced. The boy’s chest was heaving gently, smoothly, flexing as the muscles of his shoulders flexed, as his arms spun and his wrists twisted and his fingers twirled around the smoke.

His legs gave him direction and height, mapping a trail around the floor and dragging his body between the nooks and cracks of the area, the lights around him decorating the space and brightening Sherlock’s every movement.

John was vaguely aware that a small crowd had begun to form around him, made up mostly of those people Sherlock had been talking to earlier, and a few couples who had previously been talking intimately between themselves. They all shuffled over slowly, brief intrigue turning to genuine fascination at the way Sherlock could move. It was, entirely, fascinating. It was the only word John could think of.

Nobody else bothered to try and dance in the space- some tapped their feet or bobbed up and down- but there was an implicit understanding that this moment, for this song, the space was Sherlock’s alone.

The dancer changed his movements from swoops to turns (pirouettes, were they called?) dipping every so often and pushing off firmly to slice the air with one leg outstretched and pointed. Across the room, John noticed some photography students grabbing cameras and shooting opportunities. Everything about Sherlock, even his dark curls and long, thin fingers were attributes of his beauty.

The music faded, and Sherlock slowly stilled and relaxed, hanging his head to push the hair from his eyes, and then rolling his shoulders and shaking out his limbs slightly. Around the room there were various echoes of applause, but Sherlock seemed indifferent to them all. He walked back in John’s direction, and the boy who was stood by John clapped Sherlock on the shoulder heavily.

“You’ve still got it, mate!”

“Naturally, Grant.”

“Greg.”

“Oh, no, this is John.” Sherlock explained, gesturing to John and smiling gently.

The boy was about to argue, then seemed to think better of it, made his excuses about some forensics essay and left.

John grinned back at Sherlock. “That was amazing.”

Sherlock nodded modestly and muttered a small thank you.

Other voices across the room called out to congratulate Sherlock, and Sherlock turned to wave and nod his thanks in recognition. He moved his hand down and placed it on John’s back between his shoulder blades, pushing gently.

John walked in the direction Sherlock steered him obediently, not minding in the slightest. He was happy to stay with the dancer, and not too bothered about the rest of the ball.

As they left the room Sherlock thanked and brushed off the compliments and praise various people threw at him. Only when the two of them were outside in the cold, sharp air did he seem to completely relax again.

It was early morning now, and only the streetlights lit the area at all. There were hardly any clouds, and the air sliced into John through his jumper, so he hugged himself tightly and blew out air to warm his lips. Sherlock looked down at him with a small frown.

“I’ll get my coat and another drink. Stay here.”

For the sheer point of disobedience, John would usually have wandered off after being addressed like this. But there was something about Sherlock. John trusted him. He wasn’t sure if he was friends with him- heck, he had spoken to him twice, briefly- and he certainly wasn’t sure that he would usually have accompanied Sherlock on a night out. The boy didn’t seem the type to comfortably frequent a bar or club. But there was something so genuine in his tone that John fell happily into his guidance, needing someone on whom to rely right now.

A moment later, Sherlock had reappeared with a glass and a long coat. He passed the former to John.

“Is it single or double?”

“Double.” Sherlock answered.

“This is gonna kill tomorrow.” He muttered, but took a long drink anyway. The bubbles fizzed in his throat.

Sherlock shrugged on half his coat and held out the other half to John. Even with the alcohol streaming through him, John still managed to raise his eyebrows at the prospect of sharing.

“Seriously?!”

“What?”

“You want me to wrap myself up next to you?”

“You’re cold.”

“Yes, I know I am, but that coat a) reaches passed my ears and b) is already occupied by another human. Who is you, by the way.”

“What’s wrong with it being me?”

“What? Nothing! But having studied anatomy deeply, I can assure you that that coat, with its two armholes and one-size-fits-all bullshit, was designed to be worn by one person alone. And that person is you.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, then rolled his eyes and put on the rest of the garment.

“Come on then.”

“Where are we going?”

“For a walk.”

“For a walk where?”

“Back to your dorm room.”

“Why?”

Sherlock sighed threw his nose and turned to John. “Because you have practice in the morning. It only makes sense for you to go home now and still get at least 6 hours sleep. That drink will keep you drunk for long enough to ignore the cold as we walk back, but you’ll be sober enough to get there. You’ll still be light-headed as you fall asleep, so you don’t have to bother over-thinking everything that happened tonight. Hangover in the morning can be solved with a cold shower, and pint of water and Weetabix.”

John just shrugged and began to follow Sherlock. He was draining his glass quickly, mostly because he was discovering how difficult it was to walk in this state without sloshing it down himself.

***

At the campus green, his toes hit a tree root and he fell, slowly and dramatically. Sherlock was strolling ahead quickly, having spent most of the walk in contented silence. He was a few paces ahead of John, and John ended up calling out to him, slurring the first syllable.

“Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ ”

The boy turned, frustrated. He had clearly been lost in thought.

“What?!”

“I have fallen over.” John explained carefully, then broke down in high-pitched giggles.

Sherlock grunted in frustration, walked back to John and heaved him up, pulling him roughly to his feet and wrapping a supportive arm firmly around his waist. John leaned into him appreciatively.

“For god’s sake, John. This is going to take us twice as long if you behave like this, and then you won’t be able to get the sleep you require, the alcohol will not be in the right stage of your system for you carry out the hangover cure I designed for you.”

“Oh dear…” John drawled sarcastically, and Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hip before leading him back to his dorm block. 


	6. Home

John was still laughing lowly to himself as Sherlock dragged him through the halls corridor. He hummed gently between chuckles, letting Sherlock’s hand push him back on course whenever he bumped into the walls or lost his balance, which was every few seconds, at this point.   
“Room number.” Sherlock demanded after a moment, his voice patient but strong.  
“291.”  
Sherlock nodded and pulled John to the correct door.  
“You’ve got your room key, yes?”  
“Yes. Yes I have. Another deduction. Well done Sherlock.” John muttered as he tried to reach into his back pocket clumsily, feeling his jeans and missing the pocket slit a full three times. Sherlock sighed and took hold of John’s shoulders gently, then knelt slightly to look into his eyes.  
“You’re a lightweight. You didn’t tell me you were a lightweight.”  
“Well, that’s very rude.” John frowned, and he meant it. And then he had hoped to make a point to Sherlock, to bring the boy down a few, to disprove one deduction this evening, by smoothly extracting the key card from his pocket with a flourish. But at that moment, as John reached behind him again to locate his pocket, his balance betrayed him and he stumbled so far back that Sherlock only just caught his wrists before he hit the floor.  
“For the love of-!”  
Sherlock bundled John back up and stood him firmly upright, still holding his wrists. Then, with his voice gentle again, “Shall I get it for you?”  
It took John a little moment to nod.  
Sherlock slid his palm flat across John’s side and down to the small of his back, then over his arse into John’s back pocket. And John startled them both by groaning slightly.  
Sherlock retracted his hand smoothly, turning away to face the door so that John could blush without Sherlock’s eyes on him. He opened the door to John’s dorm and then stood to one side to let the rugby captain through. John strolled in clumsily, his head down. He didn’t even pause before smashing down onto the mattress, fully clothed and face first.  
Sherlock, standing in the doorframe, looked at him. He blinked for a while, evaluating, assessing, and deducing, looking back down the corridor to check for witnesses. Then, he strolled into the dorm and closed the door behind him.  
For some reason, his first instinct was to kneel by John’s feet and take off his shoes. Ballet dancer’s instinct warned him of the ache that would develop in John’s ankles if he fell asleep with his shoes on at that angle. He untied John’s laces and slipped the footwear off, then arranged them neatly on the carpet. John hummed appreciatively, but didn’t move.  
He was still trapped in his jumper and jeans, and didn’t seem in a fit state to change at all. Sherlock wandered over to the thermostat and turned it down, then draped a thin blanket over John, who made no reply. He filled an empty glass on John’s desk with cold water from the bathroom sink, placed it on John’s bedside table, scribbled something down on a post-it note and slipped that under the glass of water. When he turned to check on John, the boy was already asleep, nose squished into the mattress.  
Sherlock slunk out of the room quietly, his expression just as poker face as always.

The next morning John woke to his alarm with a head like sawdust. Someone was shining a light in his eyes, and it took a few moments for him to realise that said light was actually the sun outside, which was streaming through the curtains and straight onto his face. He tried to mutter ‘fuck’, but it came out as nothing more than a grunt, and on turning his head he suddenly realised that his ears were numb. Not numb enough, it seemed, to block out the hideous screeching of his alarm clock. His arm swung off the bed again and thumped the clock quiet, his limbs rather heavier than usual.   
He had a plan, for a few seconds, to stay in bed. He felt too wooden to play rugby, too ashamed to see Matt, and too sick to face the day or acknowledge everything that had happened the night before. But after following this plan through for just five minutes, he realised how ridiculous it was. He really did have to train up the new guys, after all. Some of the techniques Matt had suggested weren’t half bad.

An hour later John was down on the pitch, drinking his body weight in water and focussing hard on the game rather than the thumping in his head from the hangover or lump in his throat from the shame that Matt hadn’t turned up to this practice. John had managed to work out a good new game tactic without him, however. His team picked up the new game plan perfectly, and once practice was over John’s head was clearer and his mood cheerier. He decided he’d go back to his dorm room, drop off his training bags, and head into the town. Then maybe he’d get a train to the next city and spend the day wandering around it alone. He felt that being away from the university might do him some good, just for a few hours, just to sort out his thoughts.   
He was already part way through mentally mapping out his strolling route when he got to his room. The old glass of water from last night sat on the bedside table, warmed from the sunlight by now. John dropped his bag on his bed and went to tip it out in the sink before he headed back out. When he reached down to get it, he saw the post-it note stuck on the bedside table underneath it. There was a scrawled, smart script scribbled across it:

I’d like to meet you in the Student Union at 3, if convenient. SH.

And then, slightly more squashed at the bottom of the paper:

If it is inconvenient please come anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK!!   
> I finally remembered this fic and now I'm determined to finish it, even if it's at a slightly lesser standard now than it started out as. I'm snowed under with work this year, but I'm going to try and keep as up to date with it as I can. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos on the other chapters!


End file.
